You Are Dead: Continue?
by templremus1990
Summary: Annie discovers that being dead is no barrier to an active social life. Oneshot, set post 1.06. Speculative spoilers only for series 2.


**A/N: **My entire knowledge of the Grosvenor Hotel, and indeed of Bristol, is based on Being Human and what I've read on the internet. Expect considerable use of artistic license when describing buildings, streets etc.

Oh, and I don't own Being Human or George Burns.

* * *

**You Are Dead. Continue?**

It took Mitchell far longer than it should have done to realise something was up.

But then, given the events of the past few months, this was hardly surprising. So much had changed so fast, and so completely, that any expectations he had held about Annie and their relationship had already been uprooted. For a long while they had just stumbled on, shell-shocked, each trying to salvage what they could from their old lives. Mitchell found himself back at work, and the object of powerful fascination from everyone who had heard of his recent spell in intensive care. In the end he kept his head down, answering any inquiries with a polite rejoinder; and then, when they showed no sign of abating, with a concise, 'Oh, _piss off_.'

By the time things had begun to settle into their new pattern, Annie had been absent most nights and during much of the day. Every so often she would reappear with silent suddenness, grab a purse or a length of extension cord, and leave again. Mitchell thought to question it, but Annie's transformation had astonished him to the point of silence on most issues. She wasn't just present, not any more. She was _aglow, _her whole being infused with a power that he didn't quite dare to name.

It was therefore something of a shock when, about twelve weeks down the line, Mitchell staggered in from his night shift to find Annie waiting in the hall.

"Get your coat."

Mitchell blinked. "…I'm wearing my coat."

"Okay then, let's go." Annie slid her arm through his, steering him towards the door.

"Woah, woah, woah. Where are we…"

Annie flicked the door shut and locked it with a single tap of her wrist; a trick that, no matter how many times he saw it, still unnerved him.

"George'll be at Nina's, right?"

Her voice trembled slightly with the question, and she already knew the answer. Ever since Nina's condition had been discovered George spent almost all his time there, and for now the others kept their distance, letting each one acclimatise to this latest, seismic upheaval. After everything else has been ripped away, things like privacy become intensely valuable; both of them knew and respected that.

They were invited to dinner later in the week. George had been adamant on that point.

"_I want her to have what I didn't."_

"Here we are."

The Grosvenor hotel loomed ahead of them, the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance just visible from where they stood.

Annie must have seen his expression, because she added, "It was for Harry, really. He's…well, you'll see. _Set in his ways._"

Mitchell opened his mouth to ask, _who the hell is Harry_, but Annie had already undone the front door and was holding it open for him.

"Everyone, this is Mitchell."

From amidst the dusty gloom, five people turned to greet them.

In the absence of natural sunlight from the boarded-up windows, the lobby was lit by eight battered bedside lamps, wiped down and plugged in all along the hallway. Two crates were drawn up as tables, with upturned buckets for chairs. Someone had made a game attempt to clear away the dust and debris, brushing it all into neat little piles at each corner. The ornate plaster swirls had yellowed; cracked with age like dried-out icing.

Mitchell tore his gaze away as a young man approached with one hand outstretched, brushing down his uniform with the other.

"Peter Patterson, 21st January 1917." He gave a wan smile. "Never even found me body."

Now the rest of the group came forward.

"Harry Turner, 30th May, 1986." The stout gentleman raised his hat, where a bloodied wound stretched across the crown of his bald head. "Well. You can guess."

"Margaret Blackburn, 20th December, 1878. My, but that was a cold winter."

"Jacob Henries, 18th August 1952. And this young lady here is Arabella. Say hello, Bella."

"'Lo," Bella muttered, tugging nervously at her ethereal pigtails.

"Well then. If we're all here…" Jacob produced a ring-bound folder from their makeshift table, opened it with a flourish, and intoned " 'I would like to call to order the seventh tri-weekly meeting of BARD. Any questions before we begin?'"

Mitchell had one. It came out as more of a wobble. "'_Barred'_?"

Jacob drew himself up to his full- and insubstantial- height. "Bristol Association for the Recognition of the Deceased."

"BARD for short." Annie broke in, helpfully.

Mitchell shut his eyes and counted to ten. The gathering was still there when he opened them, which annoyed him.

"Okay. How the hell did this happen?"

Annie took him gently to one side, lowering her voice. "It was about five weeks after Herrick. Everything was just…you know, and you were working nights, so I started wandering around. Only where no-one could see me; up to the roof of the hospital, round the old bits of Temple Gate. That's when I met Harry." She nodded towards the plump ghost, who nodded gravely back. "We chatted a bit, and I told him about us, and after a few days he came out with this. Everyone brings a friend, and…we talk. Have meetings. You know, act _real._" She rubbed his hands between hers, glancing up at him.

"I'm sorry. I should have warned you. But it never…never seemed the right time."

"No." Mitchell agreed. Nothing ever panned out neatly where they were concerned.

Annie made a sympathetic face, and jerked a thumb towards the door. "If you want, we can…"

"What? No. God, no."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm fine with it. It's just-wow." He laughed. "_Amazing_. That's the word. You…it…it's amazing."

The deceased murmured their approval. From her corner Margaret Blackburn quavered, "Hear, hear!". Recollecting herself, Annie turned back towards Jacob, who was waiting primly for them to finish.

"Sorry, Jacob. Go on."

Jacob reopened the file.

"Yesterday Mrs Vanessa Simpson, known to many of us for six months, passed over after the discovery of her remains by police on Sunday. We wish her a safe journey." He made the sign of the cross, bowing his head slightly, and the group followed his lead. In the momentary silence Annie gave Mitchell's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Now," Jacob resumed, "Something that concerns all of us. Annie's recent piece of research using 'the inter-net'…"- he somehow managed to pronounce the inverted commas- "has turned up various articles which, among other things, refer to our beloved hotel as 'an eyesore building'."

"Bastards." Snarled Peter Patterson. "Sorry, love. No offence meant."

Margaret winced. "None taken."

"_These said articles_," Jacob continued, "detail a planned Compulsory Purchase Order (CPO), which would mean the redevelopment of this island site into two office-block towers."

There was a ghostly shudder of disgust. By the far wall Bella had produced a large piece of rubble and was using it to chip away the plaster.

"In light of this,"- Jacob paused, turned over the page, and read on- "and taking into account the current partial loan to the English Churches Housing Group, I propose that immediate measures be taken."

"Why?" This from Harry, to whom the others now looked. "I've been here over twenty years. People have been pulling this place down for half that, but they've never moved a brick."

"'Sides, that report is old. Last year." Annie volunteered, folding her arms across her chest. Jacob fixed her with a cold stare.

"When you've been dead as long as I have, my dear…"

"Not half as long as _me_." Margaret muttered.

"…you'll know that time matters little. What's important here is _anticipation_. " He gestured round the assembly. "All of us were dealt a short hand in life. It is up to us now to ensure that we are not dealt another in death." This little speech completed, he sat down on a nearby bucket. "Are there any questions from the floor?"

"Where would we go?" Annie asked.

Jacob's expression brightened. "Ah, now there's thing. With the aid of this…"- he produced a dog-eared copy of the 'Bristol Evening Post'- "I have selected several possible venues that are hired out across the year. We simply make an enquiry as to when these venues are not in use, and hold each meeting accordingly."

"And how are you doing that?" Peter appeared at his side and seized the paper. "They want _references_. Proof you're alive. You're not."

"That," snapped Jacob, "is immaterial."

"Like you, then."

Jacob flushed. "Now, just a moment, lad…"

"I'm a hundred and twenty, ya daft old…"

"What happens to me?"

Everyone fell quiet as Harry leant forward, elbows propped on his knees.

"Let's just say, just for a moment, you're right. Well then. You know the score. All you, you have places to go back to. But this house comes down, it takes me with it. End of the line. Rest in _bloody_ peace."

"Like smoke." Annie whispered, her hand tight around Mitchell's.

Margaret gave a small sob. Even Bella stopped her demolition of the wall. There was a long silence, broken only by the shuffling of dead feet. Which was like silence, only thicker.

Annie cleared her throat.

"When- Herrick was after us, we thought we'd lose the house. But it was okay, because I had Mitchell, and…and George." She pointed towards Harry. "Maybe…maybe if we invited you…"

Jacob shook his head, one hand toying with his fobwatch. "Pointless. Like holding onto a breeze. None of us are real enough."

"But this place is."

They all turned to Mitchell, who had slipped from Annie's grasp and was pacing the lobby, both arms outstretched.

"Everything that holds you here is in these walls. And if you can't leave the house…"-Mitchell picked up a jagged piece of rubble, hefting it from palm to palm- "…then get the house to come with you." He swung it hard at the neighbouring partition. There was a shriek of protest from Harry, and a shriek of laughter from Bella, who clearly recognised someone after her own heart.

Mitchell caught the plaster as it came away, undid his scarf and knotted it around the shard, forming a loop at the top. He tossed the bundle to Harry.

"Just don't lose it, okay?"

The ghost stared at him. "That's…"

"_Brilliant_." Annie grinned.

"_Genius_." Jacob spluttered.

"All very well" sighed Peter, brandishing the paper, "But who's going to write these letters?"

* * *

Outside the rest of Bristol was just beginning to awaken; but in the Grosvenor Hotel, work was well underway.

By the door Jacob and Peter were embroiled in an argument over the modern price of postage. At one end Margaret was sewing window blinds to put over the weathered boards, whilst Bella alternated between cutting fabric and lying down on the floor to make dust-angels. Harry, meanwhile, had borrowed Mitchell's mobile phone and, having refused any and all offers of help, was tackling Bristol City Council's automated call system.

Mitchell and Annie sat in the centre of the lobby, where Annie had managed to get the old chandelier flickering again. The packing-case she was resting on was strewn with paper, several crumpled sheets already at her feet.

"Will that really work?" Annie asked.

"What?"

"The rubble. Taking the house with you."

Mitchell nodded. "Should do. 'Sides, you lot are more real than you realise. A house isn't just bricks and paint, you know. It's the people in it, the people you _let _come in it. He's got something to live for now. Well. Be dead for, anyway." He smiled at her. "Like I said. Amazing."

Annie beamed, heaving another box file onto the table. Mitchell gestured to it.

"D'you want any help?"

The question seemed to throw her at first. Then she nodded.

"Could you just go over these, in pen? Jacob's eyes are bad, and he _says _he doesn't need glasses, but…"

She pressed a biro and a wad of papers into his hands, kissing him briefly on the cheek.

On the top was a page headed 'LOGOS'. Underneath, the letters B-A-R-D had been rendered again and again, in different fonts and sizes. They curled from the mouths of cartoon skulls and they blazed from the front of tombstones.

At the very bottom something else caught his eye. A single phrase, then a translation, written in an unfamiliar scrawl.

"That's our motto," Annie said, from over his shoulder. "It was Harry's idea."

**De mortuis nil nisi bonum**  
_Of the dead, say nothing but good._

Mitchell grinned, and got to work.

* * *

_I don't believe in dying. It's been done. I'm working on a new exit.-__** George Burns**_


End file.
